<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Storm and the Dust by the1918</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27994227">The Storm and the Dust</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/the1918/pseuds/the1918'>the1918</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Song of the Rolling Earth [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Is 25, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Daddy Kink, Fantasizing, Farmer Steve Rogers, Guilt, Homelessness, Homophobic Parents (Off-Screen), Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Injury Recovery, M/M, Masturbation, Modern Bucky Barnes, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Retired Steve Rogers, Rimming, Sexual Tension, Shrunkyclunks, Slow Burn, So much guilt, Steve is 40, Twink Bucky Barnes, Unreliable Narrator, Virginity Kink, fantasies of:</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:34:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,085</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27994227</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/the1918/pseuds/the1918</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Bucky Barnes was twenty-five years old. He had been a student of something before whatever happened to him, well. Happened. Bucky had lived his first shot at youth with a red, beating heart and the world before his feet until Steve’s own failure on the other side of the planet reduced Bucky and billions of others to lifeless, gray dust. But now—</i>now<i>, after 2023 and weak long-shots and time machines—here Bucky was: still ash in the wind even when he was ten feet away from Steve and made of bleeding, splintered flesh. He was ash reformed as a lonely kid with dirt in his hair and dried blood on his ear, and he was young, and he was devastating, and he was beautiful in a way that burned the tops of Steve’s own lungs.</i></p><p>—</p><p>The AU Farmer Daddy Steve and Bucky story.</p><p><b>story:</b> | <b>o n e</b> | <i><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28541784/chapters/69943719">two</a></i> | <i><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28775313/chapters/70563408">three</a></i> | <i><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29385129">four</a></i> | <i><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29809440/chapters/73338375">five</a></i> |</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Song of the Rolling Earth [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2050335</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>286</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>766</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you to every single person on tumblr that supported this wild hair of an idea and encouraged me to make it a story. You know who you are.</p><p>Extra special thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ixalit">ixalit</a> for beta and to Cera (<a href="https://ceratonia-siliqua.tumblr.com/">@ceratonia-siliqua</a> or <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leopardtail">Leopardtail</a> on Ao3) for additional sensitivity reading.</p><p>Here we go...</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An unexpected summer storm rolls through a parched Bartholomew County.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"I swear the earth shall surely be complete to him or her who shall be complete,<br/>
The earth remains jagged and broken only to him or her who remains jagged and broken." </em>
</p><p>-  Walt Whitman, “A Song of the Rolling Earth” (1855)</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> b u c k y </strong>
</p><p>j u l y  15, 2 0 2 5</p><p>| now |</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Morning. You’re up.”</p><p>Bucky’s reaction is delayed when he jolts in his spot on the couch, twisting his head around to find the source of the sudden gruff voice. His new boarder had entered through the kitchen, apparently—or maybe Bucky had just missed the sound of the screen on the back door closing.</p><p>His alertness certainly isn’t at its usual level. Not with the painkillers in his system.</p><p>“Yeah, um. G’morning, Steve.”</p><p>Steve gives him an efficient once-over as he crosses the living room, starting with Bucky’s head and ending at Bucky’s feet where they’re curled between his thighs and the cushions. He’s assessing. Bucky feels naked under that gaze.</p><p>Bucky’s not naked. He’s wearing a new pair of sweatpants and swimming in a shirt that’s far too big for him. It’s Steve’s shirt.</p><p>Steve nods once—to himself, Bucky thinks—and then his eyes drift up along Bucky’s left side. He doesn’t linger on the shoulder sling or the splint that extends from his forearm to his elbow. Instead, Steve’s gaze settles on the mess of gauze and surgical tape wrapped around Bucky’s upper arm.</p><p>“We need to change your dressings,” Steve says. “I was told to do that every morning.”</p><p>Bucky blinks a few times and looks down at his own arm. He sees a small patch of dried blood seeping through; circular, no wider than a dime. It’s old by now, and it looks more brown than red.</p><p>He notices that his lips are barely parted when he returns Steve’s nod. He is sure he looks drugged-out and dumb.</p><p>“Um, yeah,” Bucky mumbles. “Sounds good.”</p><p>Steve silently disappears around the corner to the half-bath for a minute before returning with a small, clear box. Bucky thinks he recognizes the contents as the dressing materials the hospital sent them home with yesterday.</p><p>He walks to the couch, but then pauses once he’s there. Bucky tilts his head upward, and Jesus—Steve towers. Steve is <em>vast</em>. It’s not the first or second or even third time Bucky has taken note of his host’s formidable frame, but from this angle, Steve is nothing but muscle and mass and defined, virile features no matter where Bucky’s eyes land. He’s got a gray-blue plaid shirt on today, flannel with red stripes, and if it weren’t long-sleeved, Bucky might have bet that it came from the same rack as the borrowed button-up Bucky is wearing now.</p><p>Steve’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and Bucky knows he’s probably gawking—and would be doing the same even without the drugs—but he can’t peel his gaze away from Steve’s veins and the way they look under his skin: thick and long and strong, standing out against the expansive backs of his broad, worker’s hands. Farmer’s hands. The morning light from the living room windows catches and glows in the dark blond hair on his forearms. It’s thick.</p><p>It takes Bucky a minute to realize that Steve is waiting for him to move so he can take a seat on his left side, but his waiting is patient. Bucky mumbles an incoherent ‘sorry’ and scoots to his right, leaving Steve plenty of room to fit himself between Bucky and the arm of the couch. He can feel the warmth radiating from Steve’s body when he sits down. The cushions sink beneath his weight.</p><p>“How’s the pain today,” Steve asks. Bucky marvels at the way that Steve always seems to be able to ask questions without sounding like he’s asking at all.</p><p>Bucky lifts his chin and makes a conscious effort to shut his own jaw before he meets Steve’s eyes. He tries to put a reassuring smile on his face, but he’s feeling more and more like molasses as the hydrocodone he took fifteen minutes ago continues to sink its teeth into him. He probably just looks high.</p><p>“’M good,” he answers. “A little sore up in my neck. Guess I can’t really feel a whole lot.”</p><p>Steve listens and nods as though he approves of Bucky’s answer. It makes Bucky feel good for some reason, as though he did something right instead of just stating his own observation.</p><p>He watches Steve as he gets the materials he needs out of the box, sorting them, cutting the correct pieces and sizes. His shoulders must be twice as wide as Bucky’s, and he looks… he looks rugged. He looks like a man who’s been living alone for a very, very long time. Steve’s beard is thick without being lengthy, like maybe he trims it but hasn’t shaved it off in years. The hair on his head is long—not as long as Bucky’s, but still long enough that it curls below his ears. He wonders how it would feel to run his fingers through it.</p><p>He wonders if it’s bad that he wonders.</p><p>Steve glances down at Bucky’s collar, then back up to his face. His expression seems stiff, Bucky thinks. Almost militaristic.</p><p>“I need to pull down your shirt.”</p><p>Bucky can feel his own brow deepening in confusion until he looks down and realizes what Steve means. His sleeves are short, but not short enough to reach everything.</p><p>“Oh, yeah. Um.” Bucky raises the hand of his right arm to the top button and somehow manages to push it through the hole, freeing it. “Just a sec.”</p><p>He doesn’t look up as he makes slow but accurate work of the next two buttons, three in total. His fingers fall down to the fourth—but then Steve’s hand is on his. He’s stopping him. Bucky raises his head with a question on his face.</p><p>“That’s enough,” Steve says. “I’m going to pull your collar back now.”</p><p>He doesn’t move at first, and then Bucky realizes Steve is waiting for his consent, so he gives Steve another dumb nod. Steve’s fingers don’t touch the skin of Bucky’s collarbone or shoulder as he pulls the fabric back to expose the dressed wound. Bucky finds himself following his movements with his eyes and noticing yet again how very large Steve’s hands are. The fingers and knuckles alone look like they could be twice the diameter of Bucky’s.</p><p>Steve is careful about his work, but he’s efficient. He’s already peeling back the old gauze and tape from his arm by the time Bucky shakes out of his stupor.</p><p><em>These drugs aren’t fucking around. </em>At least the pain is dull and far away. At least this gash won’t get infected. At least he’s going to be able to use his arm again one day.</p><p>The calloused pads of Steve’s fingers graze his bare skin the moment the yellowed dressings are gone.</p><p>It’s the hottest July on record in Indiana. Bucky can’t blame his gooseflesh on the cold.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong> s t e v e </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>j u l y  13, 2 0 2 5</em>
</p><p>| <em>then</em> |</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The summer rains fell to the Earth like a fist on the glass of his windshield. It was, for Steve, the rarest kind of violence: unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His trip into town had been poorly planned. When Steve left the farm to complete his errands, the sun had been characteristically dry in the cornflower country sky. He’d grown so accustomed to the season’s parched heat that Steve hadn’t thought to check the weather forecast before hitting the road. His visit had also run longer than expected; by the time he’d exited the hardware store and started the engine in his truck, the sunshine had fallen low to the horizon, smothered beneath fast-approaching clouds.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That had been fifteen minutes ago. Now, it was pouring.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The torrent was thunderous against the paint-chipped hood of his pickup. Steve slowed his speed to practically a crawl as the gray of thick rain at dusk impeded his vision. Few other cars were traveling the cracked-asphalt of C.R. 400 that evening, no headlights before or behind him. Steve was thankful for it; in the two short years he’d lived in the rural quiet of Bartholomew County, he had witnessed at least a dozen collisions with drivers that had fallen too lax driving familiar farm routes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve hugged the wet shoulder as the road curved to the right. The lanes on this part were narrow, and there were low-hanging branches to boot. The last bit of light left in the sky was shut out by dense rainfall and brush. Steve assiduously flipped on his brights.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He saw a single flash of the man on the roadside for less than a second before he struck him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The body’s impact began at the hood and swiped down the passenger side of his truck, tripping over the side-view mirror. The thudding sound was sickening. Steve slammed on the breaks and spun the truck around on the shoulder, barely checking his strength as he ripped the door open and ran out into the storm.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>At first, Steve saw nothing. There was no bent-up corpse on the side of the road, no leg sticking out under his tires. He opened the toolbox in the bed of his truck and grabbed a flashlight to better see what he couldn’t in the dark of the rain. With the added benefit of bright vision, he quickly spotted the ditch lining the outer edge of the asphalt. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve angled his light into the ditch. The beam fell over a body.</em>
</p><p><em>It looked to be a man—not large, not tall, and Steve might have thought it was a teenager if not for the tell-tale width of his shoulders. He was soaked from the rain and covered in mud, and Jesus </em>fuck<em>, that left arm did </em>not<em> look right. The man wasn’t moving.</em></p><p>
  <em>“Hello?” Steve hollered down, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the rain. “Are you—Can you hear me?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There was no response. Slowly, so as not to twist his own limbs, Steve lowered himself into the ditch and rushed over to the limp body. The man’s hair was dark, long enough that it probably still reached his shoulders when it wasn’t soaking wet and matted with mud.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve carefully pressed two fingers to the man’s jugular, finding a surprisingly strong pulse. He laid a hand across his sternum and let out a lungful of air he didn’t know he’d been holding in. The man was breathing, even if it was in short, sharp breaths.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Can you hear me?” Steve repeated, but still, he got no answer.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He shined the edge of the flashlight’s beam over the man’s face, getting a better look. He was young, that much was obvious, with an unkempt bit of light scruff dusting the lines of his well-defined jaw. It was hard to see much with the dirt and the blood—goddamn, that nose might have been shattered—but Steve used gentle fingers to wipe away what he could from his eyes and his cheeks.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A young man: badly hurt, maybe broken, but still alive. Still breathing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And the most beautiful face Steve had ever seen.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Steve rushes the injured young stranger to the emergency room.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In keeping with the tags, please be warned now that that for the rest of this series there will be occasional discussion of a very bad coming out experience that involved words of violence and ultimately forced homelessness. It is all "off-screen." You are welcome to message me on tumblr <a href="https://the1918.tumblr.com/">@the1918</a> or Discord (the1918#1236) for specific trigger details and I will be more than happy to share them or point to places you can skip ahead.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> b u c k y </strong>
</p><p>| now |</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Bucky tries not to look down at the wound as it’s exposed, but Steve doesn’t seem to be affected. He doesn’t suck in a breath as he examines it. He doesn’t even wince. Bucky knows all of this because he’s staring at Steve’s face instead of his own arm.</p><p>He starts to track the movement of Steve’s hands with his eyes when Steve opens an alcohol wipe and sets out to clean the still-healing gash. Bucky hisses at the sting, but the reaction doesn’t deter Steve. Bucky’s intuition tells him that this strange, lonely man has seen plenty of blood and injury in his life. It’s not the first time the thought has occurred to him in the short time since they’ve met.</p><p>Bucky’s Vicodin-fogged attention flits from Steve’s hands to the different corners of the room. He hadn’t spent much time looking around the night before—his first night staying in this house, on this farm—so he takes a moment to absorb the details of his host’s living space.</p><p>The outdated wood paneling and striped pastel wallpaper look old enough that they might be considered ‘country chic’ if they were new, but Bucky knows that there’s no way it was a purposeful design choice on Steve’s part. There’s a newer-looking armchair to the side, upholstered with the same drab blue fabric that the couch is, almost a denim color. Bucky has a feeling that Steve purchased them as a set and was probably in and out of the furniture store in less than ten minutes.</p><p>His eyes move to the far wall, where there’s a low-lying wooden cabinet with a television atop it. The model is older without being ancient, but Bucky thinks it’s a little on the small side for a typical living room set-up. There’s a remote control on the surface next to it. Even from his spot on the couch, Bucky can see the muted layer of dust covering the buttons.</p><p>Steve has been so focused on his work that it almost startles Bucky when he hears his voice.</p><p>“Are you sure there’s no one you should be calling?” Steve keeps his eyes on Bucky’s arm and doesn’t look up as he speaks. “Not even to tell them where you are? That you’re alive?”</p><p>And maybe it’s the drugs, or maybe it’s just the thought itself. Maybe it’s both, but either way, Bucky’s laugh comes out of his throat sounding like a bark.</p><p>“You kidding? I… Nah.” Bucky’s mouth shapes into something like a smile as he looks past Steve’s head at some empty place in the room, but there’s no humor or joy in it. He can feel that his own lips are two tight, thin lines. “The only number I could call would mean talking to someone who would just be pissed off that I’m not dead.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> s t e v e </strong>
</p><p>| <em>then</em> |</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The young man was still out cold as Steve painstakingly lifted him out of the ditch. He carried him in his arms to the truck with one hand supporting the back of his neck over his tangled, wet hair, careful of any potential spinal injury. He cautiously avoided putting pressure on the disturbingly crooked left arm.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve couldn’t avoid some amount of jostling his body as he strapped the stranger into the passenger’s seat. The guy had a ratty, canvas rucksack on his back, so Steve removed it and set it aside. The only response he got for the movement was a moan—probably a half-conscious reaction—but Steve took it as a good sign. A man moaning in pain was a man whose body wasn’t in so much shock that he couldn’t feel pain at all.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The truck tires spun on the slick road as Steve hit the gas and sped off. He was thankful that he’d yet to make it halfway home at the time he’d struck the guy; it was only a ten-mile drive back to town, back to the nearest emergency room. The unexpected storm had begun to subside; just a flashy event, gone as quickly as it had come.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve drove as fast as he dared.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He threw glances in the stranger’s direction as often as he safely could during the trip, checking and assessing. The man’s head lolled off to one side, facing Steve, eyes closed. Both he and Steve were soaked and muddy from head to toe, and Steve wondered if they would have to cut off the shirt and jacket—both of which were too hot for the season, he noted—to look at his injured arm. If the rest of the young man’s appearance was anything to go by, he wouldn’t be surprised if these were the only clothes the poor guy had.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve peeled his truck into the curved front drive outside the emergency room. He had noticed the hospital before because it was next to his tractor repair shop. Steve recalled feeling confused by the facility’s impressive size, given its location in a town of maybe forty thousand residents; the place looked like it belonged in a bigger city.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He dashed out of the truck and ran for the E.R. doors, only to be greeted by hospital personnel. They must have spotted the urgency as soon as he’d driven up.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I need a doctor,” Steve ordered—said. These were doctors and nurses, he reminded himself. Not troops. “I hit a man with my truck. I don’t know who he—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Is he in the cab?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve nodded quickly and led them back to his truck. A handful of others—maybe paramedics—soon arrived with a stretcher. Steve tried to stand back as they worked to carefully maneuver the stranger out of the cab, stabilizing his neck, but he couldn’t help but hover just enough to see if the man had opened his eyes or showed any new signs of responsiveness.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He watched the first nurse take vitals as the others moved the stretcher inside. They wheeled the man through the doors at a moderate pace—efficient, but not running or rushing. Their professional judgement must have been that it was not a serious emergency crisis. A modicum of relief washed over Steve.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A different nurse stopped him when he tried to follow them in.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We’ll get him in with a doctor right away,” she said. “You can come on in after you move your vehicle.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve blinked, bewildered as he listened to her while watching this man that he’d hit be wheeled down a long hallway on an emergency stretcher. He waited until the workers pushing him turned a corner and disappeared, and then he turned, heading back out into the dying rain towards his hastily parked truck.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The unattractive beige fabric covering the chairs in the waiting area had seen better days, its color faded and edges frayed. There were a few scattered individuals about; a couple of families, a woman alone. Steve watched a small child with a splinted broken thumb emerge, alongside his father, from the doors connecting the waiting room to the E.R. wing behind it. He held a little red lollipop in his hand.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve had made a hurried inquiry at the nurse’s desk as soon as he’d finished parking his truck in the lot. They had instructed him to sit and wait for a nurse to come out once they had information they could share, which Steve didn’t expect to be much; there were privacy laws, and he wasn’t exactly family to this stranger. The guy might not have even known Steve existed yet.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Mr. Grant?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve’s head jerked up. A woman in green scrubs saw him snap to attention, and she greeted him with a friendly face as she made her way towards him. He stood quickly and rushed to close the distance between them with wide strides.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“How is he?” Steve asked. Sweat was beading up around his hairline and the nape of his neck.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“He’s awake and stable,” the nurse answered, and Steve released a loaded breath. “And he's a lucky guy. He’s doing just fine, all things considered. Got banged up pretty bad, but there’s no internal bleeding. His doctor is reviewing the x-rays of his arm now.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve wasn’t surprised to hear the last part. He’d suspected a break.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Does he…” he started, but then he trailed off. He didn’t know how to end his own question.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The nurse responded with a gentle, sympathetic smile.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“He doesn’t remember the accident, which is to be expected, but he doesn’t otherwise appear to have any memory issues or brain injury. We have him on morphine for the pain.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Does he… uh…” Steve ran a hand through his own damp hair and glanced around the sparsely-filled chairs of the waiting area. He had yet to see anyone new arrive in the time he’d been there. “Was he able to get a hold of anyone? Family?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Her expression morphed into a soft kind of sadness. She shook her head.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“He declined to have us contact anyone for him.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve wondered once again what the hell the guy had been doing wandering down the side roads of rural Indiana in the middle of a damn storm.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Can I…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The nurse cocked her head, peering up at him with a question on her face.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Would you like to see him?” She smiled when Steve nodded his response, thankful for her. “I can certainly ask him. Sit tight, Mr. Grant. I’ll be back.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve tried not to pace as the nurse walked away. True to her word, she returned just a few moments later, nodding at Steve.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Right this way.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve stood and followed her past rows of hospital beds with roll-around curtains and a few patient rooms. The sign at the end of the hallway read ‘Radiology’ in big, block letters with an arrow pointing right. The nurse led him to a room not far down to the left and stopped. She gestured for Steve to go in.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The man that he’d hit was laying down, reclined. His left arm was in a sling with a visible splint over the forearm. Someone had cleaned him up; his hair was still dirty and matted, but a nurse must have sponged off the mud that had earlier caked his skin. His soaked, soiled clothing was nowhere in sight, replaced with a thin hospital gown. He had various bandages and gauze in places on his neck and his upper left arm, but aside from the sling, he looked to be in surprisingly fair shape. Steve’s shoulders sagged with relief.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And then Steve’s eyes rose up to see the stranger’s face, and his breath caught in his chest.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He was young—maybe early twenties. The dirt and blood were gone, his olive skin wiped clean. The guy’s nose was battered from the impact and subsequent fall but appeared not to be broken. His cheekbones were sharp, his face was almost gaunt, as though he hadn’t been eating enough. </em>
</p><p><em>Steve’s stomach wanted to roil at the various other bumps and bruises and the knowledge that </em>Steve <em>was the one that put them there, but it couldn’t; his gut was too busy tightening and warming at the sight of those eyes, those lips, and the shock of that arresting beauty.</em></p><p>
  <em>And for as much as Steve was looking him over, the young stranger was looking right back. His eyelids appeared weighted and heavy as he took Steve in—probably the morphine making its appearance. His gaze started with Steve’s face, then sluggishly fell over his shoulders and the line of his body, and then finally back to Steve’s shoulders. Steve could spot the detail in the icy gray of those eyes even from the doorway. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The guy wasn’t frowning, and he wasn’t angry; he looked more disoriented than anything else.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Hi.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And fuck—that voice. It was masculine and sweet all at the same time, and Steve was stunned at his own internal reaction to hearing the sound of it. He commanded himself to regather his wits enough before finally stepping into the room.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Hello,” Steve replied. There was an unexpected soreness burning faintly in his throat. “I’m Steve.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The nurse stepped around him to enter the room—Steve had forgotten she was even there—and she pointed to a too-small, pink plastic chair in the corner. Steve nodded, watching the man’s face while he moved slowly to sit down just a few feet away from the bed. He saw no sign of protest as he settled in; this guy he’d run over apparently wasn’t ready to throw him out just yet.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Hi, Steve,” his bloodied, young stranger greeted. His lips were parted and a little bit cracked. Steve hoped that at least one of the many I.V. bags attached to him was there to administer hydration. “I’m Bucky.”</em>
</p><p>Bucky.</p><p>
  <em>Steve knew then and there that he would never forget that name.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bucky needs a surgery.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>b u c k y</strong>
</p><p>| now |</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>“The only number I could call would mean talking to someone who would just be pissed off that I’m not dead.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Steve freezes his movements, but he doesn’t respond. He also doesn’t look up from the damaged expanse of skin on Bucky’s arm that he’s so meticulously disinfecting.</p><p>The silence hangs. Bucky’s stomach feels weird.</p><p>Eventually—finally—Steve finishes up. He discards the used alcohol wipe to the side and raises his gaze to meet Bucky’s.</p><p>“Your father?” Steve asks. There is no discernible inflection in his voice.</p><p>Bucky nods. It’s the only exchange they share before Steve looks away again and grabs the fresh square of gauze he prepared earlier.</p><p>“I’m sure that’s not true,” Steve says after a quiet moment. “You’re his son.”</p><p>Bucky finds himself laughing once more, and he wonders if it comes out as dry as it’s meant to or if the painkillers just make him sound giggly and stupid. Maybe he is giggly and stupid—but what he <em>feels</em> is irritation; who is Steve to tell him that this… this <em>thing </em>that happened to him must not be true just because it sounds too ugly to be true? That it wasn’t exactly as white and black and blue as it really was?</p><p>Ugly things are real. Ugly people. Bucky knows.</p><p>Bucky has met them.</p><p>“No, it’s true,” he assures Steve. “Good ol’ Pops told me himself that I’d be better off dead than gay. Least that way I’ll get into Heaven.”</p><p>Steve doesn’t freeze this time, but his whole body stiffens. Bucky can tell that his muscles are strung as tight as a violin without even needing to touch him. Somewhere in the weird, tunnel-vision sort of clarity that always rides in on the painkillers, Bucky notices the pace of Steve’s breathing picking up. The change is almost easy to spot—especially when he’s already staring at the width of that broad, covered chest. He looks ready to beat someone into the dirt.</p><p>And that’s when Bucky realizes his mistake.<em> Fuck these drugs</em>. It’s already been once this year that he’s been kicked out of safe shelter for… for being who he is, for being found out. Except this time, he hasn’t even been <em>found </em>out; Bucky’s outed himself. He’s just told this hulking bear of a gruff, rural farmer that he’s a guy who likes cock.</p><p>What the fuck did Bucky expect from Steve? A <em>smile</em>?</p><p>They sit in silence while Steve finishes applying the fresh dressings, and Bucky thinks that’s probably a good thing. He might overshare something more or say something else idiotic. Even on the off-chance that Steve <em>isn’t </em>about to clock his lights out, Bucky can’t risk putting more of his shit on him.</p><p>Because the fact is that Steve has already been saddled with an unwanted house guest for the next two months. Bucky can’t burden him further with his pathetic life and ugly baggage.</p><p>He needs this place; he needs this shelter. For eight weeks, at least, Bucky needs the bed and the food and the roof over his head. He needs safety.</p><p>But ugly things are real. Ugly people. Bucky knows.</p><p>Bucky hopes he hasn’t just met one.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>s t e v e</strong>
</p><p>| <em>then</em> |</p><p> </p><p><em>The ugly pink chair creaked uncomfortably under Steve’s bulk. It was the only sound in the room as he and this young man—he and </em>Bucky<em>—regarded each other from across the distance between them.</em></p><p>
  <em>“I heard you were the one that brought me in,” Bucky said. His teeth worried his lower lip as he took in the sight of Steve’s muddy boots. “Thank you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m also the one who ran you over.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky let out a startled laugh. </em>
</p><p><em>“Not your fault. It was an accident. Besides,” Bucky shrugged, “</em>I<em> was the one who was stupid enough to get caught on the side of the road in all that rain.”</em></p><p><em>Steve wanted badly to ask him </em>why<em> he was on the side of the road in the first place, but he refrained. The answer to that question was none of his business.</em></p><p>
  <em>“Your arm,” Steve started, gesturing to the splint. “Broken?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky nodded. “Yeah. The doctor is supposed to come back and tell me what I need to... do about it. Or whatever.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve looked down the length of him across the bed. Bucky certainly wasn’t tall; Steve figured he might have half a foot or more on the guy if they stood side-by-side.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Any other injuries?” Steve asked.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky shook his head.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Not really. Mostly the arm. There was some kinda glass around my left shoulder that they had to pick out? Said it was a pretty big gash. Fourteen stitches.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve eyed the gauze in the spot Bucky had referenced. He tried not to wince.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Probably a broken beer bottle in that ditch I knocked you into.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Mr. Barnes?” the nurse interrupted, placing a clipboard down next to Bucky’s bed. It was thickly loaded with paper forms. “We still need to take your information.” She set a ballpoint pen down atop the clipboard. “If it’s too hard to write, I can send someone in to help you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’ll do it,” Steve said immediately. “I can help.” He stopped and looked at Bucky, remembering himself. “If you want that. I’d… I’d like to help.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky gave Steve a curious look, like he was trying to figure him out. He didn’t refuse.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Okay.” There was a hint of a blush on Bucky’s scratched-up face that Steve couldn’t explain. “Yeah, um. Thanks.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve took the clipboard and clicked the top of the pen, looking down at the blanks on the form as the nurse completed a few more short tasks before finally shuffling out of the room. It seemed like a set of typical hospital administrative forms; there were sections for basic personal information, medical history, and insurance. Steve saw no reason not to start at the top.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Full name,” he read, looking up at his new acquaintance lying on the bed. “That’s ‘Bucky’…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“James, actually. And my, um, my last name is Barnes?” Bucky said it like a question, like he needed Steve to approve of his answer. “And my middle name is Buchanan. Like the president.” He gave Steve half of what must have been a shy, toothy smile. “But everyone just calls me Bucky.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve listened and nodded, then proceeded to write everything down.</em>
</p><p>James, <em>his mind echoed. </em>Bucky.</p><p>
  <em>“Date of birth?” he continued, reading further down the form.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“March 10, 1995.”</em>
</p><p><em>Steve almost startled, but he reserved the reaction as he jotted down the answer. Bucky was five, even </em>ten<em> years older than Steve had expected.</em></p><p>
  <em>His brow sunk into a deep furrow as he read the next question. It seemed unnecessary and repetitive.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s, uh. Asking for age.” Steve hoped that his attempt at a laugh wasn’t too awkward or gruff. Over the past two years, he’d managed to acquire the skill of indicating humor without so much as a smile. “That’s needless, obviously. I’ll put down ‘thirty.’”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh—um, no,” Bucky mumbled, giving Steve pause. “I’m twenty-five.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve looked him over with a clear question on his face, but his confusion seemed to confuse Bucky in turn.</em>
</p><p><em>“Because, um…” Bucky led, speaking as though the place he was going with his words should have been obvious. He made a half-wave of a gesture with his unencumbered right hand. “The </em>blip<em>.”</em></p><p>Oh.</p><p><em>The explanation </em>did <em>seem obvious once Bucky said it out loud. It was also a bucket of ice tossed over Steve’s scalp.</em></p><p><em>It had been seven years since his failure on the battlefield snapped one-half of the life in the universe into a fog of dust—for </em>Steve<em>. But for this young man? For Bucky Barnes? For him—once ash among ash—the years passed could be counted only as two.</em></p><p>
  <em>“Right,” Steve said evenly. He tried not to let his face betray the cold hand that tightened around his lungs. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Five years of reality lost forever for this man he’d hit with his truck—all of it because of Steve. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He wrote Bucky’s answer down and kept his eyes fixed on the clipboard, moving on.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Address?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve thought Bucky didn’t hear him at first; the only answer was silence. When he looked up, he found Bucky nervously chewing on his bottom lip.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Is there any way you could, just, um.” Bucky’s voice was so small. “Could you leave that part blank for now?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I can try,” Steve said, cocking his head. “But I have a feeling they’ll come back and want one, though.” He glanced around the room for a moment and tried to think of a solution if this kid had no address to provide. “Do your parents have one we could give them?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky’s demeanor changed very suddenly with an unexpected laugh, the sound of it hollow. His eyelashes fanned dramatic and dark over the tops of his cheeks even when he clearly wasn’t trying for an effect.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No... No, my dad did a good job of making it clear that I won’t be associating myself with their address ever again.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It took Steve just a few seconds to put everything together. Of course: the poor guy was homeless. Steve might have assumed that already. His parents—for one reason or another—had kicked him onto the streets.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve’s hand curled into a fist around the cheap plastic pen. The sound of it cracking was almost inaudible, but not entirely.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’ll just put down mine,” Steve said, gravel building in his voice as he began writing out his own home address.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Wait,” Bucky protested, sitting up in the bed and quickly wincing at the pain of the movement. “They— Then you’d probably get my bills and stuff.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Sounds right to me. I’m the reason you’re here.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It was an accident!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Doesn’t change the fact that emergency room visits cost a small fortune in this country,” Steve said, his tone brokering no room for argument. “Lay back down.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He expected Bucky to glare or protest further, but he didn’t. He didn’t say anything, in fact—but he did return to his reclining position. Steve suppressed the inexplicable shudder that wanted to roll down his spine at seeing the ease with which Bucky obeyed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Insurance?” Steve asked. He decided not to make Bucky explain himself this time. “I can check ‘none.’”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky nodded, but he kept his head low.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Any occupation I can put down?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Student—or, um. Actually, can you… Can you leave that one blank, too?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve nodded.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I can.” He did. “Emergency contact?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He was met with dead air once again. Steve couldn’t stop himself from wondering what had precipitated Bucky’s situation with his estranged parents, with his vagrancy, but he didn’t try to speculate. He’d lived his formative years in the Depression and had a hard-working, single mother himself, so Steve tried to not be like others he’d met in this century. He didn’t want to walk around with the prejudice that if someone was destitute, it meant they must have brought it upon themselves.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’ll just put my number down.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Once again, Bucky gave no answer except a nod.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They went through the questionnaire for Bucky’s medical history next, which turned out to be innocuous. He was, by all measures, a healthy young man. Steve wondered how badly he’d shattered that bone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He set the clipboard down once they finished. The two of them shared a long moment of silence that wasn’t exactly awkward. Steve didn’t have the hope inside him to label it ‘charged.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Well, you know everything about me now,” Bucky said, eventually breaking the quiet. “What’s your last name, Steve?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Grant,” Steve answered.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It wasn’t a lie. It was the name on his driver’s license and the deed to his land and the title to his truck. And the last people to have called him by any other name were either dead or somewhere out there fighting, bearing a brand of the symbol Steve had turned his back on more than two years ago.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Steve Grant,” Bucky echoed.</em>
</p><p><em>He spoke the name like he was trying the taste of it out on his tongue, and then he smiled at Steve for the very first time—really </em>smiled<em>. It was a punch landing square to Steve’s gut.</em></p><p>
  <em>“Thank you for helping me, Steve Grant.”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>—</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>The nurse returned to take another round of Bucky’s vitals and collect the clipboard of forms, and the E.R. doctor (‘P. Harlow, M.D.,’ the name badge read) came in soon after. The physician regarded Steve with an interested expression at first but didn’t make any comment, proceeding instead to run through the results of the lab tests and scans with Bucky.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dr. Harlow illuminated the x-ray of his arm on the wall-mounted backlit board. Steve sucked in a breath through his teeth as he took in the sight of the jumbled fractures and fragments of bone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We’re lucky it wasn’t a compound fracture,” the doctor said, and Steve agreed; he could see all too well how a slightly different angle of impact would have pushed the jagged bone right through the skin of Bucky’s forearm. “But it’s still a very serious series of breaks. The radius—that’s this bone right here”—Dr. Harlow pointed to a line that ran from Bucky’s elbow to just below his thumb—“is fractured in two places, but it should heal with proper immobilization. This other bone beside it, though—that’s your ulna—is going to need surgery to stabilize it and give it a better chance of healing correctly.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Surgery?” Bucky repeated, his voice cracking with worry. “That’s… that’s a lot.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The doctor nodded sympathetically.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I know it sounds overwhelming. You’ll need a bone graft pasted over the most severe parts of the break, and then they’ll have to place a metal plate and screws over the fracture site.”</em>
</p><p><em>“</em>Inside<em> my arm? Like—screwing metal into my bone?”</em></p><p>
  <em>“That seems like a pretty significant operation,” Steve said, echoing Bucky’s unease. He didn’t stop to scold himself about inserting his concern into a conversation he truly had no place in.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I know it might sound that way, but it’s actually a fairly routine procedure. It’s an outpatient surgery; you’ll check in to the clinic and go home later that same day in a splint. After that, you’re looking at about eight weeks of recovery before you can use the arm again.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve considered the information and nodded. He couldn’t stomach the thought of Bucky walking around with a bum arm for—how long? A few months? The rest of his life? For as unexpected as the news about a surgery was, he was glad it sounded like a relatively simple fix to put Bucky back together the way he should be.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“When can you—?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“—No.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Their voices met in the middle of the room and clashed. Steve shot Bucky an incredulous look, trying to discern if he heard him correctly, but Bucky only looked at the doctor.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I can’t. That’s… I don’t have insurance. I can’t afford a surgery.” There was an indent shaped like teeth growing deeper in the flesh of Bucky’s lower lip, which might have been trembling. “Can’t I just leave today with this splint you already gave me and leave it on for, like, what was it? Eight weeks?” He sounded like a child asking their parents to make an exception to an important rule. “I’ll be careful.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Bucky…” Steve sighed, trying hard to stay out of the conversation but failing more and more by the minute. He couldn’t let Bucky make this mistake.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s difficult to say for certain,” the doctor answered. “But it’s unlikely your arm would heal right or ever be the same. The chances of it mending correctly without operative intervention are very low. I don’t see you regaining full function without this surgery.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve listened while gauging Bucky’s reaction out of the corner of his eye. He could tell Bucky was continuing to weigh the possibility of forgoing the necessary surgery, and Steve didn’t give him an opportunity to protest this time.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’ll pay for it,” Steve interjected. Bucky’s eyes snapped to him. “I told you. It’s my fault you’re here to begin with. My responsibility.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Steve, I…” Bucky huffed, starting forward like he was going to reopen the argument about who landed him in the emergency room in the first place. He broke off instead, looking back at his doctor. “It’s not just… I mean, what would I have to do after the surgery?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Bed rest, for a while.” Dr. Harlow shifted their weight to the opposite foot. “You don’t want to jostle that arm or it won’t set correctly, and then you may need another surgery to fix it. It will need to be immobilized for the full eight weeks.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve watched Bucky bite his lip, eyes wide and fraught with the choice in front of him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“When can you operate?” Steve asked, filling the silence.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dr. Harlow adjusted their glasses and flipped back a few pages in their clipboard.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You can actually get it done at our surgery clinic in Indy right away. We don’t have space in the schedule here at this facility, but the good news is that they could proceed with it tomorrow. There were no signs of internal injury on your scans or your labs; still, I do want to keep you overnight as a precaution—especially given that your body would be placed under the strain of anesthesia during surgery. We could discharge you here in the morning, and then you could make the drive into the city right away if you choose to move forward.” The doctor paused. “I certainly recommend that you do.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve turned his attention back to Bucky—not that it had ever left completely.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You should do it tomorrow, then,” Steve said. “Don’t worry about the bill.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky had clear difficulty trying to meet Steve’s eyes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Thank you, but… even if I decided to do the surgery, that’s like an hour away by bus, and I—I don’t have the cash for that, and then afterwards I wouldn’t have anywhere to, and…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky trailed off as soon as he started to trip over his words. His cheeks were flushed with what must have been embarrassment.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I would drive you there and pick you up after the operation,” Steve said, explaining what he had long past decided. “You can stay with me while you recover.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The silence that followed Steve’s offer was as loud as a ton of bricks falling through the ceiling.</em>
</p><p><em>It wasn’t that Steve proposed the plan before he could think better of it; he could have slept—fitfully—on his options for a long, dark night and still arrived at the same decision, because it was the </em>right <em>decision, and because Steve’s bones filled up with aching each time that he looked at this man’s face.</em></p><p><em>Bucky Barnes was twenty-five years old. He had been a student of something before whatever happened to him, well. Happened. Bucky had lived his first shot at youth with a red, beating heart and the world before his feet until Steve’s own failure on the other side of the planet reduced Bucky and billions of others to lifeless, gray dust. But now—</em>now<em>, after 2023 and weak long-shots and time machines—here Bucky was: still ash in the wind even when he was ten feet away from Steve and made of bleeding, splintered flesh. He was ash reformed as a lonely kid with dirt in his hair and dried blood on his ear, and he was young, and he was devastating, and he was beautiful in a way that burned the tops of Steve’s own lungs.</em></p><p>
  <em>So there Steve was—sitting awkwardly in a hospital room—putting himself forward to seek a second chance that Bucky did not know that Steve did not deserve, and he was doing so with an offer of a spare bed and a spot at his kitchen table.</em>
</p><p><em>“Steve, that’s… It’s </em>eight weeks,”<em> Bucky protested, voice weak as he fixed Steve with an incredulous look. “That’s way, </em>way<em> too much for you to do for me.”</em></p><p>
  <em>Steve looked back to the doctor.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Would you mind giving us a moment alone?” he asked.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dr. Harlow nodded once and tucked away the clipboard beneath their arm. “I have a few other patients to check in with, but I’ll be back in a bit to discuss this further. Take your time.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky didn’t look at Steve right away after they were left alone.</em>
</p><p><em>“It’s not too much,” Steve argued. “Bucky, I… I live alone, but I have a spare bedroom. Plenty of space. You could take it easy while you recover. You </em>should <em>take it easy.”</em></p><p><em>Bucky raised his head finally and looked into Steve’s eyes—right </em>through<em> Steve’s eyes, grazing against the back of Steve’s skull. His icy orbs were wide and brimming with saltwater and bright, </em>so<em> bright, gray like the silt-covered surface of a glacier that was too remote for anyone to see or walk upon.</em></p><p>
  <em>Steve suddenly felt like he was up on his tired feet and walking another abandoned corner of the earth instead of sitting and crushing a pink plastic chair.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I don’t have a way to pay you back,” Bucky said.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You shouldn’t. I wouldn’t take it.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“All I am is another mouth to feed, another body taking up space—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I have more money and space than I could ever want.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“—‘m not worth it—”</em>
</p><p><em>“Whoever told you that was wrong,” Steve interrupted. His voice rolled out of his lungs strong and clear and unwavering. “You </em>are<em> worth it.”</em></p><p>
  <em>Bucky stared back at Steve as though he had said something outrageous, but he fell silent. He searched the depth of Steve’s eyes as though he were assessing what exactly it was about Steve that could be so mixed up and confused as to offer the things he was offering.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You don’t even know me,” Bucky whispered.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Maybe. But from what I know about you so far, I think I’d be a fool to pass up a chance to get to know you more.” Steve paused for a beat. He hoped those words weren’t too far. “And you deserve the help. You’re worth the help. Please let me.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He wondered what was going through Bucky’s head in the full minute of quiet that passed between them next. The only sounds were the faint sighing of the pump connected to the I.V. machine and the busy noises of the E.R. outside the room. Bucky’s gaze fluttered from Steve’s face to the rest of him, then down to the floor, and then back up to Steve’s face as though he were inside his own head, changing his mind over and over again in loops and bent-up circles.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Finally, Bucky swallowed dryly and locked onto Steve’s eyes. Steve tried to breathe in the muted sound from clear across the other side of the room as he pushed away the visceral wrongness of the yearning inside his veins.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes,” Bucky answered. “Okay.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve let out the heavy breath he’d let himself hold forever inside.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Okay.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bucky comes to the farm.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>b u c k y</strong>
</p><p>| now |</p><p> </p><p>Bucky doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved that Steve is done replacing the dressing and removing his hands from his skin. All his brain can think about is whether it’s a good sign that Steve didn’t rip away his touch as soon as Bucky had let it slip that he was into guys.</p><p>It feels like it should be a good thing. It could just be that Steve is kind enough to freshen him up before tossing him back out onto the country roads with nothing but his dirty backpack and bottle of painkillers in-hand.</p><p>“I need to go get ready to do some work out in the field,” Steve says, gathering the used and disposable items from the arm of the couch. “But I’m going to go into town for a couple hours in the afternoon. You’re welcome to come.” Steve pauses, then adds, “if you’re feeling up to it.”</p><p>Oh. So maybe Bucky’s admission hadn’t changed anything after all. Or maybe it <em>had</em>, and Steve was just looking for an opportunity to boot him out of his truck once they’d driven far enough away from his property lines. Bucky contemplates whether declining the offer will be the difference between him having somewhere safe to sleep tonight or not.</p><p>He apparently contemplates it for too long.</p><p>“You don’t have to,” Steve says. “You should stay here if you’re tired. You could give me a list of anything you need.”</p><p>Bucky blinks, nodding dumbly for what feels like the umpteenth time since he’s woken up. That… that sounds like it could be okay. <em>Does </em>he need anything? He can’t remember.</p><p>“Um, that works. Thanks.”</p><p>Steve returns the nod with another one of those assessing gazes that Bucky is becoming so used to being on the receiving end of. He turns to leave the room, so Bucky figures that he must have been satisfied with whatever conclusion his mysterious assessment provided.</p><p>Or, at least, Steve <em>starts</em> to leave the room. Bucky watches as he heads away but stops five feet short of the stairs, and then he sort of just… stands there; large and broad and exuding that steel, brooding aura of his.</p><p>Steve is silent for a good ten seconds before he finally speaks. He doesn’t turn around, but his rough voice is big enough to carry itself backwards across the room.</p><p>“I’d have no room for judgement, even if I thought it was wrong,” he says. “You’re safe here, Bucky.”</p><p>And then Steve disappears up the stairs.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>s t e v e</strong>
</p><p>| <em>then </em>|</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Steve waited until Bucky was checked out of the E.R. and moved into an overnight patient room to depart from the hospital. He promised Bucky that he would be back in time for his discharge at eight o’clock the next morning and drive him directly to Indianapolis in time for his surgery check-in.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He spent the rest of the night preparing for a house guest, and his first task consisted of a trip to the Columbus, Indiana Wal-Mart. Steve had remembered the muddy rucksack sitting in his truck before he’d left the hospital. He’d asked Bucky if he wanted Steve to bring it inside, but Bucky had declined with a stiff shake of his head. He said that there was nothing in there but a few muddy changes of clothes and that the bloody clothes he already had on-hand were in better shape.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve started in the men’s clothing section and worked through the store’s racks with efficiency. He used his exceptional memory and penchant for spatial analysis to relive the feeling of Bucky in his arms when Steve pulled him out of a ditch, recalling the width of those fit shoulders and narrow waist in an attempt to estimate his measurements. He stuck to the basics with his purchases: a dozen or so cotton t-shirts, a few pairs of blue jeans, comfortable sweatpants. A few people gave him odd looks as he shopped, but Steve figured it wasn’t so much due to recognition of his face as much as it was the fact that he was gathering up bundles of clothing that were obviously several sizes too small for him. A rugged beard and a simple Colts ball cap had yet to steer him wrong when it came to blending in during the two years he’d lived in the county so far.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He grabbed a few pairs of shoes—trainers, mud boots, some comfortable house shoes—based on his best guess in size, before moving onto socks. Steve spent too long pondering Bucky’s possible preference in underwear style before deciding to grab a pack each of the softest-looking boxers, briefs, and boxer-briefs he could find. He flipped each baggie to look at the size chart on the back in an effort to shun the part of his brain that wanted to stare at the models on the front and picture another man—Bucky, who was no less than fifteen years his junior—wearing nothing but the blue, skin-tight briefs from the multicolored pack in hand.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve paid a visit to the linens section to buy sheets and plenty of blankets for the bare, naked mattress on his ill-loved guest bed. He grabbed a new set of towels—his own were sparse and worn—as well as a shower curtain for the guest bath, which had never once been used. A quick lap through the grocery aisles came last; he figured Bucky might require a few more vegetables than Steve’s enhanced metabolism and high-calorie, high-carbohydrate diet could provide.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The starlit sky overhead had cleared while Steve had been at Bucky’s bedside, and the summer night’s heat had nearly dried up the wet roads by the time Steve was heading home with his purchases in tow. The atmosphere hugging the ground was hot and humid as Steve drove the distance of his muddy, unpaved drive, shifting his truck into park and grabbing his bags to step out into the country air. The earlier break in the sky had been impressive, but Steve knew that one big storm wouldn’t make a difference in the ongoing battle with his broken ground; even his cover crop of summer millet was failing when faced with barren land and record drought. Mosquitos may have been buzzing in the air as he wiped his boots off on the porch that night, but Steve knew that the sun would rise in the morning and evaporate even the dew, leaving nothing but ugly, dry dirt in its place.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve busied himself readying the spare bedroom and bath. He threw the new bedding and towels in the wash as soon as he walked through the door, and he had them dried by the time he was finished dusting out the bedroom. He tossed the many options of underwear in the washer next, along with a single change of clothes that he would bring to Bucky in the morning. He did a final load with the rest of the store-starched clothing before he went to bed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He set the unopened, mud-caked backpack in the guest room for Bucky to find for himself.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The young man looked considerably out of it when Steve arrived to pick him up at the hospital, but he was cleaned of yesterday’s dried blood and remaining dirt; the hospital staff had clearly helped him take a bath. The inflammation from the break and the accompanying pain had clearly set in, and when he was finally wheeled out to Steve’s truck in a laundry-fresh change of clothes (which Bucky had blushed upon receiving, bashfully thanking Steve), he was holding a much-warranted bottle of prescription painkillers. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky slept in the passenger’s seat most of the way to Indianapolis. The radio didn’t interfere with his dozing; Steve rarely ever listened to music anymore.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve sat in the surgery clinic waiting room for five hours while Bucky underwent the operation. There were no complications, thankfully, and Bucky went through post-op quickly. Steve was nearly finished with the last chapter of the cheap pulp paperback he’d picked up at the gas station when the nurse wheeled Bucky out. He was sporting a new splint meant for long-term use as well as a sling, and he had fresh gauze on the glass-inflicted wounds across the meat of his upper arm and shoulder. He looked every bit like he’d just woken up from a heavy round of drugs and potent anesthesia.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Hey,” Steve greeted, shoving his hands and his shitty book into his pockets as he stood. “How do you feel?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky gave him a wobbly smile and looked up at Steve like he was pleasantly surprised to find him waiting.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Kinda, um...” Bucky laughed with his halfway tilted grin. “Fuzzy?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve almost smiled back.</em>
</p><p>—</p><p>
  <em>Bucky didn’t sleep on the ride home, but he was hazy. He spent the drive asking Steve a handful of basic things: how long Steve had lived around there, what he did, if he had a family at home. Steve answered each question truthfully; Bucky didn’t ask him about his life before moving to Indiana, so Steve had no reason to lie.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve turned the truck off the road and onto his property. He noted the previously muddy driveway was once again dry as a bone and found the late afternoon sun beating down across his farm with the same unforgiving heat he had come to expect. Bucky leaned forward and peered out the window, squinting as he scanned the expanse of what was visible of Steve’s acreage. Steve thought he was going to ask more questions, but Bucky just stared around with his mouth slightly agape, blinking without saying a word.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky remained quiet while Steve helped him out of the truck and into the house. Steve watched him take in his new surroundings, and he figured that Bucky’s silence was due to his inevitable exhaustion until he remembered that Bucky had been homeless for… how long? Had Steve even asked? And now suddenly here Bucky found himself: safe in a spacious home with running water and halfway-comfortable furniture inside a place he could securely plan to call ‘shelter’ for at least the next two months.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve’s chest swelled with an unexpected sense of protective satisfaction—the pride of a man who had not known the reward of caring for another human for far, far too long. It was foreign and nostalgic all at the same time.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Let’s get you the tour.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky’s face remained drowsy but curious as Steve proceeded to lead him around to each room, familiarizing him with his temporary home. When Steve had bought the property two years prior, the farm itself had been in absolute disrepair. The land had gone uncultivated for at least a decade, and the soil that lay beneath the grotesque overgrowth had been eroded and leached of every last natural nutrient. The house itself—unoccupied after its previous elderly occupants passed away—had been the only thing in good shape when Steve took over the deed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You don’t need to worry about food,” Steve said, passing through the kitchen with Bucky trailing behind as they walked towards the staircase. “I make all my meals, and I eat a lot. Plenty to go around.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He looked over his shoulder to check if Bucky had any questions, but the only thing Bucky had for him was a foggy nod. He remained quiet as Steve led the way up the stairs to the bedrooms.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve made a mental note on the way up to change the burnt-out light bulb in the staircase; the last thing he wanted was to see Bucky trip and bend the metal in his bones.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“This is my room.” Steve didn’t stop as he passed by; he only pointed to the closed door. “Knock if I’m in there and you need something.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky made his first sound yet since entering the house—a quiet, reserved gasp—when Steve led him through the door of the guest bedroom. It was a room Steve had already begun to call ‘Bucky’s room’ in his head.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Here’s where you’ll sleep,” Steve told him. “There’s a bathroom across the hall. That one’s all yours. I’ve got one attached to my bedroom.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve observed Bucky as he took it all in. His painkiller-addled gaze crawled across the features of the room: the modest oak dresser with an old, boxy television resting on top, the matching wood nightstand, the rod-iron frame surrounding the double mattress. His eyes landed on the dirty rucksack in the corner of the room.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“If you have anything in there that needs cleaning or washing, just add it to that laundry basket there. I’ll take care of it.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I—Steve…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He could practically see the way Bucky’s tongue fell flat on the attempted sentence. It was as though Steve was watching everything sink in with Bucky; a bed that was his, places to keep his things that weren’t just a torn canvas bag hanging from his shoulders. Steve thought at first that it should have been a pleasant moment, but Bucky—who Steve had at least sixty pounds on already—had never looked smaller.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve wished he could make Bucky feel big.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He gave Bucky a reprieve from his attempt to make words and crossed to the dresser, fiddling with the rabbit-ear antenna on the television.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Nothing special—I don’t watch a lot of TV—but it should get the local stations. You’re welcome to use the bigger one in the living room whenever you want.” Steve reached down and began to open each of the drawers one-by-one. “I picked up some things. I think they’re your size.” He opened the last drawer and looked up at Bucky. “You’ll need to let me know if you need anything else.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky stared at the contents of the dresser from afar, nodding in shock with a slack and nearly sad expression. It was that look on his face that made Steve recall exactly what it was like to be poor and to have someone offer him things that his dignity could not afford to accept and his pocketbook could not afford to refuse. He closed the dresser drawers without another word; a kindness.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m going to make dinner. You should get settled.” Steve passed Bucky on his way to the door, but he did not make eye contact. “Go anywhere you’d like in the house. It’s yours.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky was unmoving and silent as Steve left him in his new room.</em>
</p><p>—</p><p>
  <em>Dinner was as simple as it always was for Steve. He seared a large package of chicken thighs in a pan and tore up a loaf of warmed bread into chunks, microwaving some sparsely seasoned green beans as an afterthought. He assembled plates for him and Bucky both, piling his own higher, but Steve reserved at least half of what he would normally consume in a separate container to the side. He would eat the rest after Bucky went to bed; he wasn’t ready for the interested looks and questions about his exceptional calorie intake.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky appeared in the kitchen soon after he was called down to eat. Steve caught sight of the sling on his arm just before he carried Bucky’s serving over, and he paused, setting the plate down to cut up the chicken with a fork and knife before finally placing it down on the table before him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Thank you,” Bucky mumbled.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You don’t need to thank me.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They ate their meal in relative silence, talking about little else than Bucky’s surgery and management of his current pain. The sun was sinking down low in the sky outside the west-facing window by the time Steve had finished clearing his own plate and Bucky had finished what he could on his own. Steve saw his heavy eyelids beginning to droop.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You should tuck in early,” he suggested. “You’ve had a big day.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Steve’s voice. He bit his lip and nodded through a blush, like he was embarrassed at his own exhaustion.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah, um. I guess so.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They said polite ‘good nights’ to one another before Steve set out to wash the dishes and Bucky disappeared up to his bedroom. Steve was drying the last of the plates when he heard a sound—his name—coming from upstairs.</em>
</p><p>“Steve?”</p><p>
  <em>He barely caught it with how tiny Bucky was making his voice, even with his enhanced hearing. Steve set the plate down on the rack and moved up the stairs with no small amount of haste.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Bucky?” Steve called as he approached the closed bedroom door. “What’s wrong?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Nothing, I just— Can you please come in?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve thought it strange that Bucky did not just open the door himself, but he turned the knob and pushed. He had to snuff out the sound of his own breath passing sharply through his lips when he saw Bucky. He was sitting on the side of the mattress in a pair of the cotton sweats Steve had bought, but he wore very little else—because the t-shirt he had worn that day was tangled up between his head and his bulky sling, immobilizing him, obscuring his face.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Shit,” Steve muttered under his breath. He rushed to the bedside—halting just short of putting his hands on Bucky—and assessed the position of the injured arm. “We don’t want to bend that wrong. Tell me what you need me to do.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky tried to guide Steve through helping him pull the shirt off, but they quickly determined it wasn’t going to be possible without removing the sling. Steve sighed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“’M sorry,” Bucky mumbled from somewhere behind the tangle of fabric. “The nurses at the hospital and the clinic helped me with this before. I didn’t think about having to do it alone.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t apologize,” Steve said. “We need to get your arm out of this sling. Do you think you can do that yourself?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It wasn’t that Steve wasn’t willing to help Bucky whenever he needed the help; Steve just didn’t want Bucky to feel dependent on another person any time he wanted to do something as simple as removing his own clothes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Um, yeah. I think so. Can you help me pull this back down so I can try?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve carefully untangled the t-shirt, removing it from where it wrapped around Bucky’s head to reveal a rosy flush on the tanned skin of the young man’s cheeks. He decided not to make Bucky’s embarrassment worse by speaking.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He stood back and watched while Bucky navigated removing the sling himself. They ran into a different issue once the sling was gone: the shape of the splint purposefully prevented Bucky from being able to unbend his elbow enough for what it would take to manipulate both arms out of a t-shirt without outside assistance.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Shit—sorry,” Bucky swore when he realized it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I told you not to apologize,” Steve rumbled. He tried not to sound cross. “It’s my fault anyways. I didn’t think about you having to maneuver in and out of these by yourself.” Steve stopped and sighed. “I… I should have bought shirts that you could button up. I have something you can borrow for now. I’ll be right back.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve turned and stalked out of the bedroom, heading down the hallway towards his own. He opened his closet and expediently flipped through his collection of shirts while searching for the smallest ones. He landed on a plaid button-up that was largely reflective of most of the other shirts that he owned, only it was short-sleeved and rarely worn, the type of thing he only donned when working with machinery that he didn’t want to risk getting clothes caught up in. He removed it from its hanger.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Here,” Steve said as he returned to Bucky’s room. “A shirt that opens should be easier to get your arm into than trying to hook it through a t-shirt.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky stared blankly and nodded, his lips slightly agape. Steve’s jaw tightened of its own accord for reasons he didn’t care to name.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“C’mon. Let’s get you out of that so we can try this.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>With a little collaboration, they were able to get the t-shirt off without straining Bucky’s arm, and then Steve made quick work of opening the buttons of the new shirt. He nearly began helping Bucky into it, but then Steve remembered that the point of this experiment was to see if the different style would allow Bucky greater independence to get himself dressed. Steve handed the shirt over, swallowing silently when Bucky took it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His theory proved true; it was slow at first, but Bucky was able to work his splinted left arm into the shirt sleeve before maneuvering his free right arm through the other. He was also able to button it with one hand, and after two tries and some assistance from Steve, they figured out how Bucky could reattach the sling by himself.</em>
</p><p><em>And then Steve was left with the sight of Bucky sitting in his house and wearing his clothes. He specifically purchased the clothing he owned because it could accommodate the breadth of his shoulders. Bucky didn’t need all that room; he </em>swam <em>in Steve’s shirt, his compact body practically disappearing inside a space that was meant for Steve.</em></p><p>
  <em>“Thank you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky peered up through the fanned shade of his eyelashes with such sincere gratitude. Steve realized that the earnestness in that gaze could one day burn him if he wasn’t careful.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve had never—until right that second, with the fresh memory of Bucky’s warm skin beneath his fingertips—been one for ‘careful.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I need to run to town tomorrow afternoon. I’ll pick up some similar shirts that fit you better.” Steve paused, unsure if there was anything else to say, before deciding that there simply wasn’t. “Good night.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky smiled at him, a soft thing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Good night, Steve.”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>—</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Steve stripped off his clothes and set them in the bathroom hamper. He took a rare moment while waiting for the shower to warm to do something he almost never did anymore.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He looked at himself in the mirror.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His hair was getting long. Steve ran fingers through its length and considered whether it warranted a trim. He hardly spared a single second on the fractal pattern of branched red scarring that extended up the length of his right arm, sparking out over the skin of his shoulder and chest. There was the hint of an awkward tan-line across the girth of his biceps where shorter sleeves had screened his shoulders from the summer sky while leaving his lower arms out to bronze; a true ‘farmer’s tan.’ He stopped himself short of wondering what his house guest would think if he saw it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve turned the water temperature up in the shower higher than he normally would. He efficiently tended to his normal wash routine, and then he stood under the stream with one arm against the tile, head down and eyes closed, doing nothing more than allowing the nearly scalding water to pound down against his shoulders and the nape of his neck. He shifted his stance, one leg forward and bent to allow some free room to open up between his thighs.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His cock hung heavier than he could remember it feeling in a long, long time.</em>
</p><p><em>Bucky seemed to be shockingly innocent for all that his lips looked like hard candy and sin. Steve shouldn’t want him. He </em>couldn’t<em>. Bucky was far too young as a sweet, bright twenty-something, and he was vulnerable; lost and broken without a home and in possession of nothing but a tired smile and a rucksack of a few sad belongings.</em></p><p><em>But</em> fuck, <em>those lips. Those eyes.</em></p><p><em>That </em>body<em>.</em></p><p><em>Steve reached between his legs to tug down on his full, low-hanging balls. He didn’t know if the sudden dizziness was due to the heat of the shower or the fast rate at which his dick was filling up, but Steve didn’t allow himself to touch his cock—and </em>Jesus<em>, did he want to touch it.</em></p><p>
  <em>He’d forced himself to ignore the sight at the time, but Steve’s eidetic memory had been exactly as sharp as ever with Bucky shirtless on that bed before him. The image of it was crystal clear when Steve’s eyes were shut, lashes wet with water from the spray, and then all he could see was darkness and the light olive tone of Bucky Barnes’s skin.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve wanted to ghost his breath across the lines of that taut abdomen and between those ribs that needed so much filling in. He wanted to scrape his teeth over those tiny, dusky brown nipples. And earlier that evening, oh—when Bucky had turned to sit down at the dinner table? Steve wanted to run his fingertips along the swell and dip of that ass, perhaps just lightly enough to incite goosebumps. Maybe more than anything what Steve wanted was to spread him out and sketch him, to tenderly commit all of those lines and those swells and those dips to paper so that they might cling to some other surface than just the backs of Steve’s eyelids.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He turned off the shower and toweled off quickly, barely drawing the moisture out of his too-long hair before hanging the damp towel on the rack and brushing his teeth. He headed straight for bed afterwards, lifting back the top sheet and slipping beneath it one leg at a time. He took no blanket, not with a summer as hot as this one and the serum’s tendency to make him heat up like a furnace.</em>
</p><p><em>Only once he was there, Steve wondered if maybe he </em>should <em>have put some clothes on before bed just this once. He typically slept in the nude and didn’t see that changing—he had thrown a pair of athletic shorts on his nightstand should the need to quickly cover himself arise, or should Bucky suddenly require his assistance—but on this night, the slide across the bedding created friction as it rubbed over his skin, reminding Steve of the way he had almost been able to </em>hear <em>the cotton of his own shirt sliding over Bucky’s body. He recalled the way Bucky’s long, nimble fingers had moved while they threaded each individual button through its eye, the way the collar had looked moving over Bucky’s neck. He could still feel the heat from Bucky’s flesh and bone where the backside of Steve’s hand had brushed against his sternum.</em></p><p>
  <em>And then his cock was fully hard against his thigh.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve rolled onto his back in the center of the mattress. He gave the base of his shaft a tight squeeze as though it were a reprimand, but the only thing that did was make him hiss through his teeth and want more.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky was too young, and Steve had already spent the past seven years fucking up his life. The least Steve could allow the man was grace enough to leave him out of his touch-starved fantasies as he lay hot and alone in his bed for yet another night.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He released his dick and reached for the nightstand, grabbing for his shorts.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>—</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Everybody thought Steve was a strong man.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve wasn’t.</em>
</p><p>—</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>The spandex of the shorts hung loose around one of Steve’s ankles, his other leg spread wide and away to let the tension escape the heated cage of his balls. He wrapped a hand around the seat of his cock and gave the blood-hot length a long, slow tug with the other.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And he did all of it in the dark of his bed, his mind on the man sleeping comfortably in the guest room just down the hall.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve wondered if Bucky’s lips tasted as sweet as they looked. He wondered if Bucky would let him bite onto his mouth and take charge of his lips and tongue. Steve’s own tongue felt wet, the underside pushing up against a new flood of saliva as he thought about sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of Bucky’s pale throat like he so craved to do. He wanted to know if the skin on that neck tasted heavy like syrup, saccharine and viscous enough to settle into all of Steve’s gaps and thicken his weary, aching bones.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Would Bucky let him?</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“Yes<em>, oh..</em>”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>He wondered how those same lips—always shiny and spit-slick from all that nervous licking—would look pressing against the head of Steve’s cock…</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“Touch me. Please.”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>…or if Bucky’s lips would even fit around it.</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>(“That what you want, sweetheart?”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>He wondered if Bucky had even held another man’s cock in his hand before. Steve had cruised rye-soaked queer establishments across two sides of a millennium and different corners of the world, but he’d never found one foolproof way to identify men who loved the touch of other men. But that didn’t really matter, because Steve wasn’t blind.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve saw the way Bucky looked at him.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“You want my hands on your body?”)</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>He saw the way Bucky eyed Steve’s shoulders, Steve’s arms, Steve’s chest. Steve’s hands.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>(“<em>Yes</em>, yes, please—<em>please</em> touch me…”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Perhaps the most hideous parts of Steve would be so lucky that Bucky really hadn’t known another man.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“Oh, honey… Do you like that? Do you feel open and sweet for me now?”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>Or maybe he </em>had<em>—but only sloppy college men. Perhaps he would let Steve show him how much better a grown, experienced man could make him feel than a skinny jock.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“Yeah<em>, there</em> you go, baby. There you go. Just like this. Do you like having a real cock inside you?”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky was a naturally slight man; he might have been half Steve’s size. He wondered what it would feel like to fuck into that tight heat, what those lean legs would look like with Steve pressing them into the Bucky’s chest.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“Do you like feeling me hard in you, feeling how much I want you?”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>He wondered if that sweet ring of muscle in the valley of his ass was the same color as the soft, silky tan of his nipples. He wondered how that pretty hole would look struggling to get wide for Steve’s cock—a strenuous task with a stunning reward, and a hell of a stretch that few had handled and none had once failed to weep over.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>(“Do you like the way your little body opens up for me?”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>He wondered how Bucky’s voice would sound crying out Steve’s name.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“Yes, Steve, please, <em>fuck</em> me, own me, <em>Steve—</em>”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Except—except, no. Steve didn’t. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He wondered how Bucky’s voice would sound crying out—</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“—<em>Daddy</em>!”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Steve bit down on his lip to smother a rumbling groan, twisting his fist around the base of his cock to choke it off. He wanted to bury his own sounds inside Bucky’s neck.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“Can you feel that inside—how much your Daddy wants you?”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>He’d had men in his bed that wanted to be his ‘boy’ before. Steve had been enthusiastic for it. But it was always the reality of their frames that was so central to the appeal of that play: taking a strong man with thick thighs and a full mat of hair on his chest and making him feel small. Vulnerable.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“<em>Yes</em>, Daddy, I feel it, feel <em>you</em>…”)</strong>
</p><p> </p><p><em>But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Bucky Barnes </em>was <em>small and vulnerable. He was a man—no doubt, a nice hint of muscle and a dusting of hair on his pecs—but he was small, and he was compact, and something told Steve that Bucky was… inexperienced. He had the kind of raw beauty that people killed to have and to take, but maybe Bucky had never been with </em>anyone<em> at all.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>(“And does this thick cock feel like you hoped it would?”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>But that was fruitless to even consider, because Steve couldn’t. Steve would be taking advantage.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He groaned quietly and forced his hand to slow down. The strain of it was painful, and his heart’s pulse throbbed in the vein beneath the tight squeezing of his palm.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“‘S <em>better</em>, Daddy, so <em>big</em>…”)</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>After even the small bit of time he’d known Bucky, learning how soft and sweet he could be, how damn grateful he’d been when Steve offered him a place to stay… how quickly he obeyed when Steve gave him an order?</em>
</p><p><em>Fuck. Bucky would </em>let<em> him.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“Big, yeah? Doesn’t hurt, does it?”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Steve’s hand had sped back up on its own accord at some point. He forced himself to slow down again and pinched the head of his cock hard; punishment for letting his thoughts run away in such an abhorrent direction.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“No <em>no</em>, Daddy—! Doesn’t hurt, feels so <em>good</em>. Please don’t stop, <em>please</em>…”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>But Steve could be good to him; he could be gentle like Bucky deserved even if the monster in his veins wanted to be rough.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“Slow, baby. Keep it slow with me, <em>yeah</em>. Hips, just hips, just like this. Doin’ so good for me.”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>No—maybe someone </em>else<em> could have that, but Steve didn’t deserve a chance to be good and gentle.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“Daddy wants you to <em>feel</em> how deep he is in you. Do you feel it?”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>There wasn’t a damn good thing in this world that Steve deserved, really, not after he and his failure ripped a hole down the middle of the lives of billions. Not after he up and left his team, saddling his best friend with the burden of a shield no one wanted to bear so he could fuck off to a dead piece of Earth without so much as a phone number to reach him at.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>(“I feel it, Daddy, yes…”)</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>He didn’t deserve good things. He certainly didn’t deserve a warm, sweet young man to fuck his cock into whenever he wanted. A man to call him ‘Daddy’—to be Steve’s </em>boy.</p><p><em>… But </em>fuck—<em>would Bucky’s breath hitch? Would he weep? Would he hiccup through his words?</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>(“I feel it, it’s—‘s <em>deep, </em>Daddy.”)</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Steve knew Bucky would let him bend him over the kitchen counter and lick him out, eat his sugary little ass until his hole was loose and sloppy with Steve’s spit.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“You’re s-<em>so</em> deep.”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Bucky would let Steve hold him down, let him pin him to the bed while Steve fucked him however fast or slow Steve wanted, only to scream and cry his pleasure when Steve worked a second and third orgasm out of him.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“Feel so good—<em>oh</em>!”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>Yes, Bucky would </em>let <em>Steve fill him up:</em></p><p>
  <em>Tongue—</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“This little hole was made for Daddy to kiss—wasn’t it, sweetheart?”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>—fingers—</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“Does it feel nice to stretch out this pretty place where I licked you open?”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>—cock—</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“Oh, Bucky, baby<em>, </em>take it, just <em>take</em> it. Take this <em>fat cock</em>—”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>—and come.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>(“—Take Daddy’s cock, hold still, <em>take what Daddy has for you</em>, fuck—!”)</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>For all that it dirtied up his hands and wrists, the guilt sunk its teeth too deep into his throat for the pleasure of Steve’s orgasm to last longer than an instant.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>At least the useless shorts were good for wiping off his spend.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Steve rolled onto his side and breathed. He had always known that the sky was eventually bound to break: sheets of laughing rain pouring over his piece of Earth and the asphalt of C.R. 400. And now it had.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’d just never thought that temptation would fall down with it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sweet. Earnest. A smile like sunlight even when he was sad, a pretty slice of heaven that Steve did not deserve. Steve’s only job right now was to keep Bucky close, healthy. To keep Bucky safe.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yes, Steve would be taking advantage. He knew already that Bucky would let him if he tried—if he asked for the things his blood burned to take.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And that was exactly why Steve could never ask.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“You’re safe here, Bucky.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>b u c k y</strong>
</p><p>| now |</p><p> </p><p>Miles of sloping green peaks roll across the western horizon: the old, low mountains of Brown County State Park. Bucky remembers camping there with his dad when he was a kid. He can almost picture what the sun would look like setting behind those hills from his current spot standing on Steve’s front porch.</p><p>“Nice view, isn’t it?”</p><p>Bucky startles. It’s hardly been an hour since he took his morning Vicodin, but the effects of the drugs must be at their peak if he hadn’t even noticed the front door open or close when Steve stepped outside.</p><p>“Sorry,” Steve says when he sees Bucky jump. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”</p><p>“It’s fine. I was just looking at the ducks.”</p><p>And he had been. Steve’s front porch overlooks his driveway and three stock ponds, all of them next to each other. The sunlight bounces off of the surface of the water in the prettiest way this time of morning. Bucky’s been eyeing a sweet family of Mallards—a momma and her four ducklings—as they paddle around the pond nearest to him.</p><p>“Used to be more of them that would come around when I first bought the place,” Steve says. He’s busy pulling what looks like work gloves onto his hands, and he’s changed into a pair of worn but tough-looking leather boots. “The drought has really drained the water levels.”</p><p>Bucky listens, nodding. He’s not really sure how he’s supposed to respond.</p><p>He watches as the littlest duckling gets distracted by something on the surface of the pond—a water bug, maybe—and he’s a little bit worried when the momma duck doesn’t notice at first and swims far ahead with the rest. Eventually she does turn, counting only three heads. Bucky is relieved when he finally sees her zooming back to the other side of the pond to fetch the one that she left behind.</p><p>“How much of this is yours?” Bucky asks.</p><p>“Everything you can see from this porch, to start.” Steve points towards the wooded area to the northwest. “That patch of wood is part of it. About thirty acres forested, then a little more than seventy in total when you add in the field. Keep following those trees back and you’d reach my neighbor’s fence line.”</p><p>Bucky looks around at the expanse of land and the handsome patch of woodland where Steve is pointing.</p><p>“I, um. I thought this was a farm,” Bucky mumbles. “Where are the… you know. Crops?”</p><p>He glances at Steve and finds him wearing a dry smile.</p><p>“I’ll show you. Come around this way.”</p><p>Bucky follows Steve as he steps off the porch and onto a footpath that hugs the perimeter of the house. They pass the exterior wall of what Bucky knows is the kitchen, and then they turn the last corner to find a very different view than what the picturesque country porch overlooks.</p><p>He didn’t grow up on a farm, but Bucky did grow up in Indiana; he’s no stranger to the sight of cropland. Looking around the stretch of field in front of him, Bucky thinks that he’s looking at a typical field of dried wheat stubble—a common sight in the plains after a June harvest of golden winter wheat—but then he looks closer.</p><p>This field isn’t neatly cropped stubs of wheat hay. It’s pale, but it’s not the dregs of a healthy grain harvest. He focuses his eyes in on the details as much as the drugs will allow.</p><p> </p><p>Steve’s field <em>is</em> grain.</p><p>It’s also forty acres of parched death.</p><p> </p><p>“What, um,” Bucky starts. “What are you… growing?”</p><p>“Millet,” Steve answers.</p><p>“Millet?” Bucky repeats. He’s not sure he knows what millet is. “Is that, like…”</p><p>“Just another grain. You can eat some kinds, but this one is mostly for cover crop.”</p><p>‘Cover crop.’ Bucky thinks he remembers that term from school or somewhere, but he can’t place it now. He makes a mental note to ask Steve about it at a later point in time when his brain can store new information.</p><p>“At least, it <em>was</em> millet,” Steve continues with a wry grin. “What’s left of it will be hay next month. Kelly down the road already put in a down payment to roll it up for her stock. Been good and dead for weeks now, but the land’s not ready to lose the cover just yet. Dirt’s ugly enough already. With a year as dry as this, the wind would carry the last of my soil right off the field.”</p><p>And oh, Jesus. The <em>soil</em>.</p><p>Bucky hadn’t paid it much mind at first, too distracted by the scorched heaps of dead grass. Now that he knows where to focus, he realizes that the underlying dirt is the most lifeless part of the whole picture. He can barely see the soil between the fallen millet stalks, but it’s there: a dry, dull brown that seems as though it’s clinging to the Earth with its final bit of thin strength. It’s lighter in color than it should be, anemic, like all of the richness that once lived inside got sucked out by something old and cruel that Bucky can’t see. He’s sort of shocked at how parched the ground looks when there had been a massive storm soaking the county just two nights ago.</p><p>“It’s a sight, I know,” Steve sighs. Bucky watches him as he kneels down to re-tie a loose lace on his work boot.</p><p>It <em>is</em> a sight. The entire Midwest has been struck by a long-running drought, but Bucky had no idea that <em>this</em> is what the consequences of that looked like for the farms only miles away from his former home suburb of Shelbyville, Indiana.</p><p>“Is this how it is on all the farms?”</p><p>“Not exactly,” Steve answers. “Everyone’s having a hard time without the rains, but dirt can die just the same as crops. It’s not all about the water.” He finishes double-knotting his laces and stands, tall and wide as ever. “This dirt here was dead when I bought it. Decades of over-tilling, misuse. Abuse.” Steve laughs suddenly, ironic, and it’s as dry as the land beneath their feet. “Idiots that don’t learn the lessons of the failures in the past. I’ve yet to figure out how to fix that kind of mess.”</p><p>Bucky is still staring in stricken awe at the barren vista when Steve reaches out to place one of his broad, warm hands atop Bucky’s good shoulder.</p><p>“Welcome to my dust.”</p><p>He gives that shoulder a squeeze, and then he drops the hand back to his side.</p><p><em>Dust</em>. As if on command, a hot breeze kicks up dirt while Steve walks away into the thirst-stricken fields.</p><p>Bucky thinks the dry summer wind must have been listening to them talk—laughing.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>|  <em>end of story</em> <strong> o n e </strong> |</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>you may now proceed to story <b>t w o</b> | <i><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28541784/chapters/69943719">The Dust and the Seed</a></i> |</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Your comments and kudos and shares [ <a href="https://the1918.tumblr.com/post/638392416048693248/the-storm-and-the-dust-by-the1918-story-o-n-e">tumblr</a> / <a href="https://twitter.com/the1918Lynne/status/1348019180533112836?s=20">twitter</a> ] water farmer Steve's crops ❤</p><p><b>Bonus material!</b> If you feel so inclined to dive a little deeper for more content about this AU, please check out the <a href="https://the1918.tumblr.com/post/638338573468336128/the-song-of-the-rolling-earth-series-background"><i>Song of the Rolling Earth</i> Series Background Post</a> on my tumblr <a href="https://the1918.tumblr.com/post/613869899452907520/lynnes-the1918-masterlist-see-all-of-my">@the1918</a> (P.S. I pride myself on being the only fanfic that I know of that comes complete with a topographic map).</p><p>Thank you again to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ixalit">ixalit</a> for beta and to Cera (<a href="https://ceratonia-siliqua.tumblr.com/">@ceratonia-siliqua</a> or <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leopardtail">Leopardtail</a> on Ao3) for additional sensitivity reading. Also thank you to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/becassine">Becassine</a>, Heather (<a href="https://littlesurfergrl.tumblr.com/">@littlesurfergrl</a>), and all of the Shrunkyclunks Bitches<sup>TM</sup> for providing support and the always necessary hype.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>